


Destruction Makes the World Burn Brighter

by capnkirks



Series: Destruction Makes the World Burn Brighter [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight (2008), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Eventual Smut (so the rating may change), F/M, Graphic Violence, How Harleen became Harley, I feel like this kind of thing might be overdone but I'm trying my hand at it all the same, Origin Story, Post-The Dark Knight, Pre-The Dark Knight Rises, Slow Burn, Threats of Violence, messed up things in general, un-beta'd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:59:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2488574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capnkirks/pseuds/capnkirks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months following the events of The Dark Knight, a young psychiatrist newly placed at Arkham is given the chance of a lifetime. Dr. Harleen Quinzel is a bright, ambitious young woman intent on figuring out the Joker. It's not long before she's in over her head, the Joker pulling her strings and setting her along a dark path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Feral Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fan fiction, and certainly my first hand at writing the Joker, however direct or indirect his POV within each chapter. Right now, it's un-beta'd, and like I said in the tags, the Harleen-becomes-Harley storyline might be a bit trite at this point, but I do find it fascinating; I've read and seen so many different takes on the Mad Love arc that I wanted to try my own hand at it, with of course a bit of a Nolan twist. There is naturally influence on the Joker's interpretation by the wondrous performance of Heath Ledger, as well as some influence by the performances and interpretations found in The Joker Blogs, which I stumbled upon and fell in love with.
> 
> A lot of the time, I feel like Harleen gets overlooked as a stupid or vapid individual, and with my readthrough of Gotham City Sirens, I found that to be a huge mistake on the part of a lot of people. Seriously, guys, if you haven't already: go check it out!
> 
> This is definitely a WIP, and I'm not really sure how long it's going to be. I've got different chapters in the works right now, and a vague idea of where I'm going with this, but otherwise I'm flying a bit by the seat of my pants. If anyone would like to beta, feel free to get in touch and let me know!
> 
> Title taken from a Chelsea Wolfe song by the same name.
> 
> Naturally I own neither the characters nor the lyrics, and can only claim ownership of what I write and that I definitely don't get any monetary gain from this.
> 
> And now, on with the show.

**Chapter 1 - Feral Love**

_your eyes black like an animal_  
black like an animal  
crossing the water  
lead them to die [ [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=49MYJkEazIg) ]

 

* * *

 

 

When she normally thought of the phrase "animal magnetism," she thought, firstly, that people needed to stop using phrases like that. After that, though, she immediately pictured brawny men, or sensual, feline-like women; they prowled, drawing people in with enigmatic stares and irresistable smiles. (Now that she thought of it, Harleen realized that mostly she pictured characters from trashy romance novels, all glistening and sexy, awakening primal urges in anyone and everyone around them and blah blah blah.) Truth be told, she hadn't thought those types of people existed, but watching the surveillance footage of another doctor trying--and failing--to psychoanalyze the Joker, she could see it.

He wasn't sexy, all muscle and raw power. He was something else entirely, with glinting dark eyes poorly-hidden behind matted hair. The shadows played off of his scars, giving him the appearance of always smirking, an all-knowing, ghastly grin on his face. And just then, he did seem to know something that the poor doctor across from him didn't. Even through the grainy footage, Harleen saw it. She saw an animal, an apex predator, just barely held in check by handcuffs and what one of her colleagues liked to call 'the good shit.'

Even just watching him from the safety of her living room, she felt a shiver run through her. He wasn't what immediately came to mind when she thought of animal magentism, but he did have a certain draw to him, like all dangerous things did. It made her want to poke and prod, to crawl her way into his psyche and figure out what no one else had yet. And being given the chance to do that should have made her happier than it did just then, but watching the Joker dissect his former psychologist with his gaze and the bare twitch of his scarred lips... it filled her with more than just a little bit of dread.

What had she gotten herself into?

A hell of a lot, to hear Guy talk about it. She'd known it was a mistake to tell him about the assignment--one she'd pursued for months ever since the Joker's capture, even when she was just doing her thesis back at GSU--but before she'd started watching the old archive footage that GCN had provided copies of to the police and Arkham doctors (as well as the session videos from Arkham), she'd been elated. Thrilled. So excited she'd stupidly told her boyfriend about the assignment, about the fact that she'd been trying for eons to get even just a second with the Joker in an attempt to figure him out.

She was just glad she'd only told him over the phone, instead of in person. She wouldn't have been able to take the disappointment that would've shown up clear as day on his face. She loved him, deeply, but sometimes he tended to drag her down, half the time without even realizing what he was doing. How many people had brushed her off, told her she couldn't handle a certain assignment? How many times had she proven them wrong with a twist of her lips and brilliantly backed research? Even Dr. Jonathan Crane had told her she had potential, back when he'd been an instructor, and long before (she hoped) his descent into unethical experiments, terrorism, and madness.

(Truth be told, he hadn't told her in exact wording that she had potential, but when he'd expressed surprise at her knowledge and aptitude in the field of psychology, she'd chosen to take it as a compliment, especially considering his lack of propensity for handing those out, like, at all. Kinda like high scores on his assignments. When the highest score she'd gotten from him had been just shy of an A and with a scathing but useful critique, she'd taken it and cherished it, and sometimes still looked back on it as her proudest academic achievement. She did not share that fact with anyone else.)

Her attention returned to the television screen, remote clutched in her hand. The Joker was, in a word, unsettling. But there was an undeniable draw to him, one that she doubted she was alone in feeling. The terror and horror of what he did should have been enough to repel even the most unstable of individuals, but it somehow had the opposite effect. It was like watching an accident unfold in front of you, or the aftermath of tragedy. You wanted to tear your eyes away but couldn't for the life of you do it, even when feeling like you were doing something sinful, something almost as horrifying as what had occurred. But even still, she couldn't find it in herself to look away.

Harleen called it professional curiosity. She wasn't the only one that called it that. It wasn't full-blown obsession; she knew she would reach her limit soon on what she could bear to watch. She'd only managed one watch of the news clip where the Joker had held that poor man--Brian Douglas--hostage, taunting and terrorizing him for the world to see, killing him after the tape had stopped rolling. Knowing that man's fate had left a bitter taste in Harleen's mouth, and she found it easier to watch him perform mental vivisections on each and every one of his therapists at Arkham.

_"Why do you use a knife?"_ The doctor asked from the film, his shoulder partially blocking the Joker's face. At that question, the killer's face lit up almost imperceptibly; his back straightening as he leaned forward, pressing his bound hands to the tabletop. _"Well, doc... well, uh, ya see,"_ he began, pausing to lick at his chapped lips. He did it constantly, and she wondered if it was only when he had an audience. _"I can't get it **up**. Just between us girls."_ He let out a little giggle, menacing for all that it sounded eerily similar to that of a young woman. _"I mean, that's the **reeeeasonable** explanation, isn't it? It's the one you'd find in your little books and what you've written in your notes, **riiiiiight**?"_ Harleen heard the doctor clear his throat softly, shifting in his seat. She glanced down at his notes and saw that he had, in fact, written 'impotence?' in his notes.

_"That's not really the case, though, oh no. It isn't ever that simple, and you of all people oughta know that I don't just use **kniiiives**. I like to.... uh, uh, mix it up a bit. Repeating the same joke over and over again doesn't do anything for anyone, now does it?"_ His voice took on a low, menacing growl as he watched his therapist--former--with animal eyes. _"I think a better question to ask is, ahem, uh..."_ He trailed off, raising a fist to his mouth to loudly clear his throat into it. When he spoke, his voice had taken on the quality of his doctor's, the imitation enough to put Harleen on edge--and she could see it affected the other doctor, too. _"Why do you kill?"_ Posture slumping, he regarded the doctor with expectation evident in his gaze. An uncomfortable beat passed before he motioned to the doctor, waving his hand as if to say go on. The doctor cleared his throat, unease obvious. _"Why **do** you kill?"_

The Joker grinned then, all sharp teeth and a predatory gleam in his dark eyes. _"Gee, doc, I thought you'd never ask! I, uh, I kill people, doc.... I kill 'em because I **can**."_

The statement itself wasn't anything new; how many killers had she studied in the classroom who had said more or less the same thing? They'd been bored, they'd wanted something to do. Sure, some of them had some measure of a justification for it, but a good number made it about power and the desire to say that they'd held someone's life in their hands and had taken it without a second thought. It was a simple explanation, especially for him. Was it really that simple? _Could_ it be? Occam's Razor would have her believe so; it boiled down to the simplest answer often being the  _right_ one, but she couldn't help but feel that that wasn't the case... If it were, it would be a waste of everyone's time to try and pry into the Joker's mind, wouldn't it? It'd be a waste of her time, and at the end of the day, he'd be just another ordinary sociopath. For whatever reason, she couldn't stand the idea that it was that simple; just like she couldn't bring herself to believe that the Batman was just another sociopath, too; there had to be something  _more,_ something that made him tick beyond  _just to do it._

Sighing, Harleen paused the video and stood, moving into the kitchen to fix herself a fresh mug of tea. As the leaves steeped in hot water, she stared over the center island at her television and the grinning, wicked visage of the Joker. She told herself that the goosebumps were from the chill in her apartment, ever-present in the cooler months no matter how hard she tried. A beat passed where she watched the frozen picture, and by the end she moved to turn off the television entirely, feeling like, somehow, it was her he'd been staring at. It was uncomfortable, it was potent, and she felt a little silly leaving the lights in her apartment on when she curled up on her couch again to go over notes, but it made her feel a little bit safer all the same.

Later, when she curled up in bed, blankets tugged up to her chin and a stuffed lion (which she would deny owning in public but cherished all the same) tucked against her chest, she couldn't help but wonder, definitely not for the first time, just what she'd gotten herself into.

As she drifted off, yawning and snuggling deeper into the mattress, she thought she got the impression of being watched, but was out like a light long before she could tell herself to stop being so stupid.


	2. Pays to Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update! I hope people are liking it so far. I'm still working a bit at it, and I know it's a bit slow right now but hopefully that'll pick up soon. There's also a quick courtesy warning for ableist language; it's very brief, but it does appear pretty early on in the chapter. I think that's it! If anyone catches anything else, just let me know and I'll be sure to edit as needed.

**Chapter 2 - Pays to Know**

_tricky anaconda_   
_got to be the know-it-all_   
_the weather beating on ya_   
_can you walk it off_

 

* * *

 

 

The day of the session, Harleen was a bundle of barely-contained nerves. She tried not to let it show; after all, if people started to think that she was too nervous, they wouldn't let her anywhere near the Joker, and quite frankly, she hadn't spent so long pestering the powers-that-be just to be laughed out of the interview room because she looked like a kid about to go up on stage for the first time. Beyond that, too, if she were to show her nerves to the _Joker_... he'd eat her alive, no doubt about it. She already ran the risk of that happening, considering there had been more seasoned doctors before her, all of whom had thrown in the towel after three or four sessions, at the most.

Sitting at her desk as the day dragged on, Harleen had to ask herself just what she'd been thinking. _Don't be stupid_ , she told herself, tapping her pen against a manila folder as she read notes for one of her other patients--a low-security patient put in Arkham because it was either there, the streets, or Blackgate Prison, and Arkham ended up being the lesser of three evils. Her eyes kept going over the same passage over and over again for lack of concentration, and she released a frustrated sigh and took off her glasses; placing them on her desk and moving to rest her head in her hands. _Told you to stop being stupid, Harley. What are you so afraid of?_ What a hell of a question, really. There was a ridiculous amount to be afraid of, to be honest, and it was smarter to be worried than to go in entirely confident and self-assured. Assertive would be good; professional even better.

It was difficult, though, when just about anything seemed to give the man an opening. She'd seen him dress down Doctor Arkham, for goodness' sake; what made her think she'd be any different? _You've got to be different. You might not be able to cure him, but you can sure as hell figure something out about him. Something interesting or useful._

She jerked, startled when her cell phone began to ring, vibrating against her desk. Pushing her glasses back up her nose, Harleen picked up her phone and glanced at the screen to see it was Guy calling her. With a swipe, she answered the call.

"You're late, Harls," he said, sounding more amused than put out. _Hello to you, too_ , thought Harleen, though she felt the corners of her mouth turn up in a small smile regardless. "No I'm--" she began, stopping herself when she glanced to her clock and saw her lunch break had started nearly twenty minutes ago. "Okay, I am. Sorry." She let out a small huff of a laugh, standing up and gathering her purse from the locker behind her desk. "It's okay. I know how it gets with you working with all those crazies."

"You know I don't like it when you call them that."

She heard him sigh at that, could practically see his eyes roll. "Yeah, I know. Sorry. Slipped out." It slipped out a lot, she'd noticed, but how many times had she lectured him on proper language for the mentally ill? Sure, she worked at an asylum filled to bursting with criminals, but when it came down to it, most of them were harmless; put there because people didn't know what else to do with them when they came up in court. It was her job to help the ones who could be helped, and to observe the ones who couldn't.

_And, apparently, to obsess over the really scary ones. One._

Not. Helping.

"It's okay." It really wasn't. "Look, I'll meet you there in... fifteen minutes or so. Pam coming?" She held the phone between her ear and shoulder, closing up her patients' files and locking them away in a filing cabinet, key tucked away into her trouser pockets. With another cursory sweep of her office, she shut down her computer as well after making certain everything was saved and grabbed her badge, hustling out of her office while fishing her keys from the recesses of her purse. "She's here already. I swear, if both of you ended up on time at the same time, the world would cease to exist." Harleen snorted, laughing outright when she heard Pam protest in the background, her complaint not entirely audible.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't eat without me. I'll be there in a bit, alright?" She gave a small nod and smile to the security officer as she passed her purse through, hardly bothered anymore by the notion that someone was going through her purse. It was a precaution, and if someone really wanted a good look at her emergency tampon stash, they could go right ahead. "Will do. See you soon, babe." Her smile widened as she murmured a good-bye to Guy, taking back her purse and heading down to the parking garage. It was chilly even in there, her breath coming out in soft puffs as her short heels clicked on the cracked pavement. It'll be great once the board decides to actually use the funding to fix this place up, she thought, glancing around and making her way to her car. Every month someone brings it up, and every month this place still looks like a complete dump.

* * *

 

It was awkward, sitting next to and across from two of the most important people in her life, knowing that each was a breath away from lecturing her. As she crunched away at her salad, she saw Guy glance to Pam, the both of them eyeing her warily a beat later. With a sigh, she put down her fork and addressed them both. "Look, I know what you're gonna say," she started, shifting slightly so she could look between the two of them. "And I appreciate it, I really do. But it's gonna be fine. They wouldn't have cleared me for access if they thought something bad was gonna happen." Never mind that people had actively avoided dealing with his case lately, or that there had been incidents of orderlies quitting Arkham entirely after dealing with him. Pam and Guy didn't need to know that part.

"Harleen," Pam began, and Harleen bit back a groan, knowing where this was going. Pam never used her full name except for when she was gearing up for a well-meaning lecture. "I know you think you've got this in the bag, but... Well, I mean, look at who we're talking about here. It's the Joker. The guy's scared away as many psychiatrists as humanly possible since getting locked up. Do you think it's such a good idea to put yourself in his sights just for... I don't even know what. I don't even know what was going through your head when you decided to start lobbying for it." Harleen tapped her thumb on the table, lips pressing into a thin line across her face. Truthfully, it wasn't anything she hadn't heard before; Guy had told her almost the exact same thing when she'd told him about the assignment, and she knew he was in complete agreement with Pam.

"You don't think I can handle it?"

"That's not what I'm saying," she continued, voice calm even when Harleen shot her a look that said _that is exactly what you're saying_. "I know you're perfectly capable of dealing with patients, but... the Joker's something else. He held this city hostage and blew up a hospital for no real reason other than just to do it. He _toys_ with people, Harleen. We all saw it when he was still out free, scaring everyone witless."

It was quiet for a moment in their booth, Guy shifting awkwardly in his seat as he crammed his mouth full of fries and glanced between Pam and Harleen. If Harley wouldn't listen to him, maybe she'd listen to her best friend; the redhead was, after all, often the biggest voice of reason when it came to most things, and Harley had been following her lead since the two of them met when Pam relocated from Seattle. Harleen's jaw worked, as though she were chewing on her words. She wanted to tell the both of them to shove off with their worries and good intentions. They weren't making her feel any better about the situation, when they should have at the very least lied to her and told her they were happy for her. After all, this was the chance of a lifetime. Before things had started to get bad with the Joker and the psychiatrists who tried to treat him or talk to him, nearly everyone was vying for time with him. He was fascinating, and Harleen still thought that--even after watching the tapes, even after seeing the news. It would be great for her career if she could get anything out of him. If she could get the tiniest little thing, someone would perhaps even start taking her a little more seriously.

Was it so much to ask for her friends to give her that much?

But instead of saying what she wanted to, she merely inclined her head, shoulders sagging. "I get it. I really, really do. And I'll admit, I'm a little worried, too. But I can't go running scared before I even talk to the guy. I promise, if things start getting sketchy, I'll tell them to find someone else. But for now, just give me the benefit of the doubt when I say I can handle it, alright?" Guy was the first to agree, muttering an, "Alright," before Pam finally gave in, too. Harleen felt her friend watching her still, but soon enough the free fell back into easy conversation. All the while, though, Harleen felt an unease settle in the pit of her stomach; no matter how much she joked and laughed with the pair of them, she still couldn't shake the idea that Pam had planted in her mind that somehow, she wouldn't be able to handle things half as well as she thought she could.

Harleen didn't want to entertain the idea that maybe Pam was right. Not now; not after trying so hard to have something go her way.

* * *

 

The drive back to Arkham was filled with nerves as Harleen tried to keep herself calm. The hour loomed nearer, and once she was checked back in, she went back to her office. It didn't take long for her to give up on reading notes and instead, when Cash came to collect her, it was with Harleen half-slumped in her chair working on a crossword puzzle. Neither of them mentioned it as she stood and straightened her clothes, pushing her glasses back up her nose and following the man to the interview room on the other side of the building. The halls, while never silent, were eerily quiet, as though everyone were waiting with bated breath to see what would happen this time.

"We'll be right outside," Cash told her, gesturing to himself and the small gaggle of security officers and pair of orderlies lurking in the hallway. Through the one-sided mirror, she spotted the Joker. He was cuffed, broad shoulders slumped and curly hair hanging limp, obscuring part of his face. His jumpsuit was a little too small, the hems lifting as he sat in the uncomfortable chair to show thin, pale ankles. His standard issue shoes had no velcro or laces, and somehow the sight of him appearing human and harmless did little to ease the nerves that resurfaced in her. She relinquished all but one of her pens, submitting to final search by a female officer before she took a deep breath and looked to Cash. "Right outside?" He nodded and she did as well, releasing that breath in a shaky surge.

"Alright. Okay. Good." With an anxious smile, she swiped her badge and entered the interview room, pausing just inside and her knees threatening to start shaking when she heard him speak.

"Oh, don't be _shyyyy_ , Doc. Come on, have a seat. Promise I won't bite."


	3. Girl Flesh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this has taken so long! Between battles with my internet and real life stress, I just haven't had the will to write for a while. But I'm back and hoping that it won't be such a long stretch between updates again. Hopefully my wifi will behave itself along with my muses, and hopefully I won't be so heinously stressed out.
> 
> In this chapter, we finally get a first glimpse of Harleen and the Joker. I actually had a tough time writing this one outside of just real life getting in the way. Honestly, I'm a bit terrified of writing the Joker, since I never have before, but hopefully he doesn't disappoint.
> 
> Also, quick shoutout to samodiva for your kind words. Hopefully you like this newest addition! :3

**Chapter 3 - Girl Flesh**

_open your eyes_

_here stands your unmaker_

_smiling frustrated_

_eternal enraged_

 

* * *

 

 

"Oh, don't be _shyyyy_ , Doc. Come on, have a seat. Promise I won't bite."

His promise hardly made her feel any better. She cleared her throat quietly, resisting the urge to look behind her at the small gaggle of guards and orderlies just beyond the doorway. They were there and would stay there, barring disaster, and showing any hint of hesitation or fear wouldn't do her any good in the long run. It was _sensible_ , sure; even rational, but it wouldn't do anything for her to show her trepidation. A beat passed before she finally stepped into the room entirely, the door closing with a soft click behind her. She was sealed in, effectively alone with a terrorist who had held a good chunk of the city hostage for giggles. The idea that Cash and the others were there to help her wasn't as comforting as she wanted it to be.

"Jeez, took ya _long enough_ ," the Joker began, licking at his lips and twisting slightly in his seat as Harleen made her way to the chair across from his, sensible heels clicking against the flooring. It was a touch too cold in the room, gooseflesh appearing on her arms beneath her jacket and blouse. "I was startin' to think you--" He cut himself off as she came into view, the young doctor sitting down and placing her file onto the table. A pair of plastic cups and a plastic, covered pitcher of water were on the table as well, but she ignored them in favor of opening the folder and getting her first good look at the Joker. It was uncomfortably quiet after he stopped speaking mid-sentence, and Harleen felt every second tick by. She wasn't certain what was worse: being alone with him or being under such close scrutiny. Something that could have been amusement or an oncoming sneeze appeared on his face as he stared at her, before he peered around the room and leaned close, speaking lowly as though sharing a secret.

"Hey, uh... you _lost_ , kid? I was told there was _a doctor_ comin' to see me."

She couldn't even be bothered to be too offended. She knew what she looked like, how out of place she seemed in a place like Arkham.

There was mockery and feigned patience in his dark stare, and she felt like something was slithering up her spine while she sat under that gaze. His long fingers were laced atop the table, and he raised his brows slowly. They dropped quickly, though, when the silence had gone on a little too long for his liking.

"Whatsamatter, cutie? Cat got your _tongue_?" It didn't feel like an endearment, didn't feel like encouragement. Much as she wanted to bolt from the room, she refused. She didn't want it to be said she didn't have a spine. What if one day someone worse than the Joker came along? She had to prepare herself for that unlikely, hypothetical eventuality. Straightening her spine, she prepared herself to speak to the madman--to the man she'd often wanted to interview, and now wanted nothing to do with. Funny world.

Harleen cleared her throat, shaking her head lightly and finally making to speak. "I _am_ your doctor."

A beat passed after her softly-spoken declaration before he suddenly burst into gleeful, sinister laughter; throwing his head back, exposing his throat as he howled at her words. As quickly as it began, however, he stopped, brows furrowing as he regarded her with no small amount of confusion on his scarred face.

All she could think, for the brief moment of silence--where her ears were left ringing from his laughter, high-pitched and even more horrible than it had been on the news--was that he was even more unsettling in person, something she definitely should have seen coming; if he was bad enough to give her chills and make her pause the tapes of his interviews so she could get away from his stare and voice for just a second, what was she expecting in person? Pam and Guy had probably been right, but they wouldn't hear it from her. Not yet, in any case.

" _Seriouslyyyyy_?" He asked, his gaze flicking down what he could see of her form. It was half-hidden by the table, and he didn't bother to scoot back to look underneath, where her ankles were crossed and knees shaking under the hem of her pencil skirt. The fact that he didn't bother to peer down into her blouse caught her a bit off-guard, but didn't provide any comfort. "Now _what_ did I do to deserve _this_?" He asked, perhaps himself, perhaps no one in particular. His gaze sliding up from the tabletop and up her chest and throat felt sharp like a knife, and she fought an oncoming shiver and forced herself to meet his dark gaze with her own pale stare.

He was downright gleeful all over again, his grin ghastly under the fluorescent lighting. Harleen found that she was in fact still capable of being offended, once the slight tremor of terror wore off just a tiny bit. It must have read in her expression, because he spoke up again soon enough, as though attempting to mollify her--although she got the impression that he was still likely making fun of her. It was what he did, wasn't it? Manipulated and turned everything on its head just because he could. She'd watched him do it, and now that he was doing it to her she wondered what drove her to the point that she thought she could take him on when tenured psychiatrists had come close to leaving Arkham entirely after a handful of sessions with him?

"I, uh, I just mean... y'know, you're _you_. _Lookin_ ' like that, ya'd think I'd been a _good boy_ to get sent such a cute. little. critter." Just as before, his words bothered her more than comforted her, and it took a great deal more willpower than she'd have liked to stay in her seat.

"I'm here to examine you, not to entertain you," she said, voice almost laughably soft. It wasn't the start she'd wanted to make, but she had learned a long time ago that she couldn't expect to always have things go her way. She ignored the giggle that followed her words, her jaw clenching in a way he undoubtedly noticed.

"Oh, sweetness, you could examine me all day, every day," he muttered darkly, his head tipped forward and eyes locked on her face from beneath a fan of pale lashes. Her stomach clenched in response, and she felt her nerves and patience fray in equal measure. Somehow, though, she managed to force her voice to remain level, calm. If there was a faint tremor to it and to her fingers as she flipped through his file, she ignored it and hoped he would, too.

"My name is Doctor Harleen Quinzel, and if it isn't too much to ask, could we try to keep this session professional?" Probably too much to ask from him, and with him knowing that his behavior wasn't acceptable, he'd likely double it just to see what would happen. When he nodded solemnley, lips tugged down to mask a wide grin, she didn't feel much better about it.

"Say," he began a beat later, forcing her to smother a sigh. She kept swinging between annoyed and terrified and it was a strange combination that wasn't doing anything good for her. With her lips pressed together and nostrils slightly flared, it was a small wonder he didn't point and laugh at the look on her face. Instead, he looked considering, raising his hands to tap his index finger against his scarred lips. "Harleen Quinzel. Harleeeeeeeen Quinzeeeeeeelllll. Y'know, you shorten it, and it sounds like--"

"Harlequin." She'd heard it a few times; Harley more than anything, as people sometimes didn't quite get the harlequin reference. More often than not, she'd heard references to Harleys and taking guys for a ride--something she sincerely hoped she wouldn't hear again in her lifetime, and especially not from him.

"That's right! Harlequin. _Harrrleeeey_. _Quinnnnnn_." He grinned again, leaning forward and tap-tap-tapping his fingers on the table again. "Can I call you Harley?" The look on his face was like a child bugging his parent for another piece of candy; like he was a breath away from an endless litany of _please please please_. Without pausing to think of it, she said, "No," and watched with a tiny bit of satisfaction as he leaned back in his seat, seemingly taken aback, if the narrow of his eyes and the noise of him sucking on the insides of his cheeks were any indication. "You can call me Doctor Quinzel." A beat passed where she watched him, using professionalism and maybe a touch of her frustration as her armor. It probably wasn't the best decision, but it was getting her trough the session and she'd use what she could get.

"Well then, _Doctor Quinzel_ ," he began, her name sounding like an insult with the way he said it, "you can call me Mister J." It would be the best she could get, no doubt. In one of the previous sessions she'd watched with him, he'd started to give a name to the doctor. _Last name Kerr_ , he'd said to the man, much to the doctor's apparent delight. She'd even seen the notes, where he'd started to write the alias before scribbling it out when it became obvious what the Joker was doing. _First name Joseph_. It'd almost been funny; she'd caught herself snorting in her living room before she remembered herself and paused the tape to go to the kitchen for a much-needed glass of wine.

He'd looked amused with himself on her screen, paused and grainy and an apex predator in his prime, barely held at bay by chains and medication. It was hardly different then, sitting across from him in the flesh, though at the very least she'd seemed to gain the upper hand by refusing one of his wishes. She imagined he wasn't used to hearing no and didn't think about the implications of that.

"Okay, Mister J." It was ridiculous and she felt stupid saying it, but she went with it all the same. Calling him patient or inmate just sounded ridiculous, and given that she was a doctor and not a warden, there was no reason to treat him like a number even if he likely didn't deserve the same courtesy as many of the other patients there. "Do you know why you're here?"

The look he gave her seemed to say _really?_ but he seemed to consider the question all the same, eyes rolling upwards as he sucked on his cheek again, tongue flicking out to worry at the knotted scar tissue at the corner of his mouth. The scars, up close, were horrible; one was nearly perfect, almost neat in the way it made a curve upwards from his mouth. The other was sloppy, though, jagged and ugly. Both must have healed poorly, might have gotten infected from the looks of them. She'd seen similar scars before, Chelsea grins that had healed to nearly seamless indentations on the skin. Then again, those had likely been the result of corrective surgery that he'd obviously never gotten. She wondered, briefly, what he'd have looked like before he got them. It was almost easy to imagine, but she kept herself from doing so, instead focusing on him as he mulled over her question.

"I'm _heeere_ , because _you people_ thought I needed to be." His expression, dark and unhappy, showed what he thought of that. "I don't _mind_ being tied up on occasion, doll, but it's gotten _a bit old_ now." His voice raised as he looked beyond Harleen to stare pointedly at the glass behind her. "I mean," he began, speaking quickly as he looked back to her, his gaze intent. "I get it. I was a bad boy, apparently, and now it's time for big brother to make an example out of me, but honestly, it's a little bit excessive to get every quack with a labcoat and a diploma from good ol' _PsychU_ in here, probin' around in my head. Believe me, if I wanted a good probing, _I'd pay for it_."

Bad boy didn't even begin to cover it. She found herself worrying the inside of her cheek with her teeth and released the flesh, clearing her throat softly. "It's an important process, Mister J. We have to determine if you're mentally fit for trial." He scoffed at that, seemingly offended by the assumption that he wouldn't be. "And you're not doing anyone any favors--including yourself--by cycling through psychiatrist after psychiatrist. We're only trying to help." It was a trite statement, and one he latched onto immediately.

"Yeah, but who are you helping, _hmmmm_?" It was a good question, one that cut right through the bullshit and straight to the heart of the matter. No one at Arkham questioned that the Joker was guilty; the jury was out on whether he was criminally insane or not, and it was clear that a lot of the motivation behind there being so many doctors willing to talk to him wasn't helping him. It was helping careers and reputations, though he'd thoroughly derailed that for quite a few of them. And she wasn't much better. But she swallowed against the urge to defend herself, instead choosing a partially honest answer. _Make it about the case, not yourself._

"The state. The new D.A and the judge. The prosecution will no doubt seek the harshest sentencing they can for what you did, and it's up to myself and my colleagues to find out if you really should be tried so harshly, or if you need to remain with us at Arkham for treatment."

His rebuttal was immediate, the harsh, " _Nope_!" catching her off-guard and making her jump a little in her seat. The sight didn't seem to amuse him at all; he was focused on the topic, a dog latched onto a bone and wearing it down. "A cage is still a cage, _Doctor Quinzel_ , whether it's got padding on the walls and enough dope to keep a poor bastard _drooling_ or if it's got a papa bear cell mate _watching your back_. I know what _treatment_ means, and it doesn't include anything that _I_ want."

His neck and face were flushed from his short-lived tirade, his hands clenched into fists on the table top. The cuffs didn't make her feel safe. If he wanted to, he could reach across the table and choke her. He could leap up and wrap the chains around her neck and squeeze. He could hurt her so easily, the guards and orderlies be damned. In all the sessions she'd watched with him, he'd never seemed to get angry with the doctors. They'd always gone with the simple questions, ink blot tests, attempts at getting into his head. Things that were easy enough for him to brush off and laugh at, and even then she felt like he might start laughing at any minute. Laughing and raging, and choking her out with the chains on his cuffs.

She licked at her lips, glancing for a beat at the pitcher of water before focusing on him again. Her mouth felt dry, her heart thumping wildly in her chest and she knew it was fear at its most base level, and if there was a small thrill of excitement, she would pretend it was from getting more out of him than cruel laughter and demeaning pet names.

"And what is it that you want, Mister J?"

The question made him go quiet, and she gripped the seat of her chair beneath the table as they watched one another. His head tilted, brows raising and then falling as he seemed to actually consider the question. He smacked his lips together, cleared his throat, and gestured at the pitcher of water and plastic cups. "Well, Doc, I could use a drink now." It was so absurdly simple that Harleen had to choke down a laugh, clearing her throat much as he had before reaching for the pitcher and a cup, filling it halfway before sliding it over to the Joker. When he grabbed for it, his fingers brushed against her own and she told herself that the thrill at it was only because it was a natural response; what her body decided to feel wasn't always in her control. He sipped at his water, and while Harleen watched him, he seemed to become small; comically wide shoulders pulling in, head hanging slightly.

She hesitated a moment before she poured herself a cup as well, sipping at it and watching him from over the rim of the cup. His expression was downright pathetic, when she got right down to it. A beat passed where her ears were still ringing, and he spoke up suddenly, voice the softest she'd heard it. "Sorry if I scared ya, Doc," he said, and she wanted to believe it was a lie; but with his expression so hangdog, it was hard to know what to think. It was surprising, certainly; he'd never apologized for anything before, in those tapes, and hadn't expressed a single shred of capability for remorse in all of the awful things he'd done when he'd been out in Gotham's streets. She could only shake her head in response at first, her brows furrowing and lips pursing ever so slightly.

Much as she wanted to think it was just another one of his games, the barest shred of an apology was something she'd never been able to resist, as much as she wished that wasn't the case. She wouldn't tell him it was fine, though, and instead mulled her words over carefully.

"I understand. It's got to be frustrating dealing with this day after day." He nodded at her words, his lips tugging downwards once more into an exaggerated frown. If he was back to that, it was familiar--sort of--territory. At the very least, it was more consistent. It didn't much matter, though; already she'd felt like she was being whipped back and forth, and it left her shaken. At the very least, he couldn't see it... hopefully.

"You sound like you've been psychoanalyzed, too, Doc." She couldn't help the little upward twitch of her lips, and she covered it by taking another sip of her water. "I had to be. It's required before you can start work as a psychiatrist." His eyebrow lifted at that, and he hummed into his own water before speaking again, smacking his lips as he did.

"Does that mean I get to have your job now? I could probably pull off your skirt." She ignored the sly curve of his lips and the not-nearly-subtle wink at his innuendo, but her pink neck gave her away. His grin only widened at her blush, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"I don't think you'd fit," she said, almost before she could stop herself. Reminding him of professionalism and propriety hardly seemed like it'd do any good anyway, and it was worth pretending like she didn't understand his wink-and-nudge comment, especially if it got him to drop it. "I dunno. Could make a few... _adjustments_. Get a little bit'a _wiggle room_." His brows waggled a few times as he said it, the man nearly bouncing in his seat. _He's not even close to letting it go. Christ, he's worse than a seventh-grader._ She quite determinedly tried to ignore the low, _low_ dip his voice made, and definitely didn't examine the fact that some part of her that needed some serious psychoanalysis might have enjoyed it. _Yeah, we're definitely lying to Pam and Guy when we talk about this session._

This time when she spoke, she hadn't planned it; the thought had been fleeting and came pouring right out of her mouth, and it was a brief out of body experience while she watched herself reply with, "I'm not sure that'd help. You're a big guy, Mister J." There was a slight moment of horror after she said it, wherein he was thankfully too distracted by choking on his water and laughing to make fun of the look on her face.

"Oh! Oh, haha--heehee, aha, ha, HA! Oh, _oh I like you_!" He pointed at her while he spoke, raising his voice and peering at the glass again. "I like this one! _Hooo_ , boy!" He kept right on chuckling, wiping at his eyes and wheezing while his shoulders shook. He went quiet a moment later, idly wiping water that he'd dribbled onto himself off of his chin with the collar of his shirt. She thought she'd heard him mutter, "You're really not wrong about that one, cutie," but she chose to ignore it, instead clearing her throat and trying to think of a way to get the session back on track.

Before she could speak again, however, Cash appeared in the doorway and gestured for her, Doctor Arkham looming in the background looking fit to start screaming. Whether it was because she'd gotten out of line during the session and had all but encouraged the same from the Joker, or because he hadn't sent her running for the hills, Harleen couldn't quite tell. She cleared her throat, looking back to the Joker and watching him watch her as he chewed on the edge of his plastic cup. "I'm afraid our session's being cut a bit short today, Mister J." If she didn't know any better--and who was to say that she did know any better?--she'd have thought he looked nearly disappointed by that. She glanced back at the open door and he followed her gaze, his dark eyes rolling as he looked back to her.

Before he could say anything further, she stood and gathered her things, leaving behind her water as she walked on trembling legs back to Cash and Doctor Arkham. She felt the Joker's gaze on her back as she walked away; thought she heard him hum low in his throat. Soon, she was out of the cold interrogation room, and though she'd have liked nothing more than to retreat into her office and take a few deep breaths, it seemed like it wasn't in the stars for her just yet. She could only bite back a sigh, shoulders tensing, when Doctor Arkham said only, "Walk with me, Harleen." It was a touch insulting to be referred to by her given name instead of by her title, and she wondered if it were intentional on his part. She followed him, struggling to keep up with the pace his longer legs started without twisting her ankle in the shoes she'd thought were sensible.


	4. Exxus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, another later than expected update. I waffled quite a bit on this chapter, and then when I got more or less happy with it, guess who was the lucky recipient of two days without internet access? You guessed right, it was me! This is a bit of a shorter chapter, but I felt like adding too much more fluff would be, well... nothing but filler, really. Besides, less is more in some cases. Regardless, I hope you all like this one!
> 
> I'm working on the next chapter as I'm posting this one, and I'm waffling even more about that one. XD As always, this is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine.

**Chapter 4 - Exxus**

_open your eyes, choking on his bed_  
choking on his bed, then grimace and smile   
take a toll, he is with cigarettes   
he picks your brains, he's stomping on his chest   


 

* * *

 

 

As she packed up her things to go home for the evening, she couldn't help but grumble under her breath, annoyed. As far as Doctor Arkham was concerned, she shouldn't be on the case at all; she was inexperienced (she was aware of that), and worst of all, had played along with the Joker. She'd not once stopped the innuendo, and had instead played right into his hands... to whatever means; perhaps it would turn out to be nothing in the long run, but there was the off chance that, according to Doctor Arkham, the Joker could form some sort of attachment to her. (And really, wasn't that what they were kind of going for? Find a doctor that he wanted to talk to, find someone who could start to figure him out and perhaps end up helping him in the long run? When she'd questioned Doctor Arkham on that, he'd gone dangerously quiet, and despite the small knot of worry that settled in her gut, it'd been quite satisfying to see him process the fact that she'd managed to think of something he hadn't. _Apparently_.)

Beyond that, though, it was better than the time one of the other doctors had nearly throttled the Joker and had been the one escorted out by security; and certainly better than the time the Joker had driven a tenured psychiatrist who had studied the worst Arkham--if not quite Gotham itself--to tears and an indefinite sabbatical. And that wasn't even touching the fact that after half of a session, Arkham himself had refused to touch the case directly. The incident had been within a month of the Joker being captured and taken to Arkham Asylum for psychiatric evaluation before his trial. There were rumors swirling about the place as to what happened, and Doctor Arkham's notes--such as they were--and the recording of his session hadn't been included in the box Harleen had been given to review. That in itself was telling, but she was smart enough to not bring it up in front of her boss.

Her boss who had made it quite clear that she was lucky he was letting her stay on the case.

Lucky was a strong word, and she was fairly certain he'd meant it loosely. She also hadn't missed the implication that if there were anymore missteps, she'd be taken off of the case and a new doctor assigned. And she got it; really, she did. But she couldn't help the annoyance that thrummed in her, the way it made her slam her desk drawers a little too hard or pack her notebook and tablet away a little too aggressively. She'd gotten something out of the Joker, and that alone made her worthy of staying on it. His outburst had shown her that, while he had seemed amused in other sessions by his predicament, he wasn't. It opened up all sorts of other possibilities. That perhaps he'd been imprisoned somewhere before, though likely illegally. After all, someone in the system would show up in searches based off of fingerprints and DNA, and he didn't. But she knew now that, regardless of former imprisonment or institutionalization, he didn't like being locked up, and he didn't like being under someone else's thumb.

_And he apologized_ , some tiny voice whispered. _When he yelled at you, he apologized right after. That has to mean something, right?_

Harleen shook her head at herself, snorting lightly as she shouldered her bag and made to leave the asylum for the evening. It didn't mean anything, him saying that he was sorry. He wasn't someone who got sorry about anything from what she'd seen, and beyond that, how many people-- _normal_ , not mass murdering people--said they were sorry without meaning it? True, he'd looked sincere; all hanging head and gentle tones, but that didn't mean that he'd meant it, no matter how much that tiny voice inside of Harleen wanted it to mean far more than it did.

She sighed at herself, pausing in the middle of her movements to pinch the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. _You really need to stop overthinking things_ , she told herself, taking a sharp inhale and letting it out in a rush as she began to move again. Checking everything in her bag to make sure she hadn't rumpled or cracked anything she needed, she hung the bag on her shoulder and moved to her office door. Soon, she'd checked out of the asylum after double-checking that her door was locked and was driving home to her apartment. It was dark out, streetlights doing little to illuminate the city streets, or to make grimy shadows seem a little less menacing. The undercurrent of fear--something she'd long since learned to grow accustomed to; Gotham was, somehow, far more terrifying than New York had ever been, which was a feat in and of itself--stayed with her even after she crossed over the bridge from the Narrows. It lingered until she reached her neighborhood and got into her apartment.

Bag on her coffee table, Harleen moved around her apartment; undressing along the way and cleaning off the makeup she'd worn. When she was comfortable in a pair of worn-out sweats and a ratty t-shirt she'd pilfered from Guy, she curled up on her sofa with a bottle of flavored sparkling water in one hand and her phone in the other. She eyeballed the number of texts she had from both Guy and Pam, the pair of them asking after her first interview.

Worrying her lip, she locked the screen again and let her phone slip in between the couch cushions, while trying to ignore the knot of guilt settling inside of her at the idea of ignoring the both of them.

A few minutes later found her perched on the edge of her sofa, the fresh recording of her interview with the Joker displayed on her television screen and her pen limp in her hand, bottom lip tugged between her teeth as his voice filled her apartment.

This time, though, he was speaking to her, and she told herself to ignore the lurch in her stomach and what it might have meant.


	5. Kill of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time around, we get a little taste of the man of the hour: the Joker himself, and his take--such as it is--on the whole situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie, y'all. I actually had this chapter done MONTHS ago. MONTHS!! I wasn't happy with it at the time; as I briefly discussed with a commenter, I'd kind of hit a writing slump, mostly due to real-life stuff. At that point, writing was a chore to me; I wasn't enjoying it as much as I knew I could have, so when I wrote something that was good to most other people, I just wasn't happy with it. But I've started to clear the cobwebs a bit, and here we are! Like I've mentioned before: this is my first time really, truly writing the Joker. It makes me nervous, really, because I wanna do him justice! So, hopefully I've gotten that here. I've kept this chapter short and sweet for that particular reason, and because I'm trying to curb the impulse to fill my writing with a lot of meaningless fluff. Easier said than done.
> 
> I can't think of any particular triggers that might have popped up in this chapter--or any of the others previously posted, that I hadn't already given warnings for--but if you all spot any, please let me know so I can address them accordingly!
> 
> As always, I wanna thank those of you who've been reading, commenting, bookmarking, and leaving me kudos. It felt good, especially during my slump, to know that people liked what they saw. And so here we are! Hopefully I'll be back to updating semi-regularly; certainly not with a long, long gap like the last one.
> 
> Finally, as ever, this work is un-beta'd, so all mistakes are mine, and the characters herein, aside from any OCs, are the intellectual property of DC Comics and Warner Bros. I just do this for fun, and I definitely don't get paid for this. (Though wouldn't it be wild if I did? Ah, money, I miss you.)
> 
> ANYWAY!! Enough of my yappin', let's do this!

**Chapter 5 - Kill of the Night**

  
_i'm gonna catch ya_   
_i'm gonna get ya, get ya_   
_i wanna taste the way that you bleed_   
_this is a bad town for such a pretty face_

 

* * *

 

 

When he was told that he was getting _another_ new doctor, he was stuck somewhere between glee and _annoyance_. In a city like Gotham, there had to be someone who could stand talking to him. _Christ_ , he hadn't even done anything and already the doctors were running for the hills! Okay, so there was the one who he'd provoked--completely by accident!--into nearly choking him to death, but that was beside the point. He'd only told the truth, and he'd been nice enough to keep himself in check while he did it! Sure, he liked getting 'educated' every once in a blue moon; it was amusing, even if his ribs didn't much think so. But frankly, he liked his teeth in his head--they were _useful_ \--and wasn't about to go pushing too many buttons and thus run the risk of them getting kicked right out. Without Comissioner Good Boy and Captain Self-Righteousness there to make sure no one went too far, he had to look after himself.

Brought a tear to his eye, though, thinking about how much those two had _taken care of him_.

(Okay, getting his head slammed into glass hadn't been as hilarious as he'd made it sound at the time, but _oh_ , it had been _worth it_.)

Where was he again?

New doc. Right.

Imagine his surprise--genuine, really, and it took a lot to surprise ol' J--when they brought in... well, what looked like a med student. All fresh-faced and pretty and looking so... nervous.

_Delicious_.

She'd even _smelled_ nice, which was a bit of a shock, too. She was all put together and trying so hard to be professional, and he couldn't help but find it a little funny. And oh, the look on her face! She'd looked ready to crap herself!

But still, hilarious as it all was, he couldn't help but wonder what they'd been _thinking_ , puttin' someone like her alone in a room with him. Yeah, okay, there were guards outside. But anyone with a brain knew he was a slippery little weasel, and if he'd had half a mind to--and he almost did--he could've had her nice and _strangled_ before Cash and his goons could intervene. He could still feel the slight indentation his nails had made on the palms of his hands from where he'd clenched his fists hard to curb the impulse. _Can't get what you want if you kill the help, J. Not anymore, anyway._

So, really, the only other thing he could do was get in under all that pretty, freckled skin of hers. It was easy, really; all he had to do was make little comments here and there, and she blushed! _Blushed_! He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen anyone blush, and that alone was worth a small snort. _With a bod like that, surely to God she's been hit on before. Christ._

It'd been an interesting afternoon, really. It hadn't taken much to get a rise out of her--or out of him ( _heh_ ), in more ways than one--and it hadn't taken much to get her to forget about it. And _naturally_ , Doctor Killjoy had come along and screwed things up. Oh, they weren't _irreparable_ , but it was a touch annoying to have his toy taken away from him before he could really get to playin' with it.

And so, back in his cell, all he could do was think.

And play with his cards.

But mostly think.

(He told everyone he wasn't a schemer, but _seriously_ , you didn't get everything he'd gotten done done by just flying by the seat of your pants. He liked to carpe his diem as much as the next guy ( _ha_!), but even he had to plan ahead. So what if he was a hypocrite? He didn't like people who made stupid ass plans, but as long as they were _good_ ones? Well, he had no problem with it.

Except for that one. But he doesn't like thinking about that.)

Thinking back to Doctor Quinzel ( _the fuck kind of a name is that?_ ), he bent a Queen of Spades card to form a nice little dormer for his card house. He still couldn't help but wonder what their angle was with this one. Arkham may have put a premature end to the session--they'd just been getting started and she'd just been showing off how funny she could be--but it was clear that it wouldn't be the last time he saw her.

Hopefully. Maybe.

It definitely made him wonder just how desperate they were that they'd stick a little piece of pretty at him like that. And hey, in some ways, it'd worked; he'd wanted to talk to her if only to start figuring her out. Keeping her in the room for a little while longer was definitely a perk, especially with other _perky_ things so close at hand. (He had functioning eyes, thank you, and while he didn't feel much of a _spark_ a good deal of the time--he had plenty of other things to keep a body busy, thank you--when it happened, well. It _happened_.) She was... at the very least, not entirely boring, definitely not completely fucking stupid, so it helped keep his attention. And her still being there and pretty much playing along with him made him wonder about her. There were three types of people who wanted to have anything to do with him.

Crazy.

Ambitious.

_Crazy ambitious._

Made him wonder which one she was, and while he was sure that ambition was a factor somewhere in there, only time would tell if she was like his usual groupies, or if it was just gonna all be about her. He could see, though, that she wanted _so much_. Truthfully, he could give her _so much_ , but whether it was what she wanted or not, well. That remained to be seen. But really, a girl that hungry? He could give her anything to chew on, any sort of scrap that she thought meant something and she'd probably be a happy little camper. And hey, J wasn't anything if not an occasional altrustic kinda guy.

Plus, he just wanted to see how much she could take before she started to crack. 


End file.
